There’s something eerily beautiful about Goldsworthy’s snow and ice sculptures… I can’t quite put my finger on it (just as well, as I imagine it’d get very cold). There’s a quiet serenity about them that I simply love, and have loved for many years. I’d imagine that stumbling across one of them would be like walking into a snippet of space that had bled through from another world. It is not out of place, yet it is clearly there by purpose. It’s wondrous but at the same time, a little somber… None of these marvels exist anymore, having succumb to the ravages of the sun and wind, and the relentless march of time, as all things shall…